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Tenshops' Blog
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Friday 23 March 2018
Saturday 13 May 2017
Living Eighties
Turning eighty is a major
milestone in anyone’s life, specially as it provides a vantage point from
where one can look back with some satisfaction at one’s own life struggles and achievements. It
is actually a good time for celebration and happy get-togethers with near and
dear ones. My dear wife, Kumud turned eighty last Sunday on May 7, 2017 and we had a small celebration at a local hotel in Virar amidst close friends and relatives. I gave a small talk on the occasion, which was much appreciated by those present at the function and here below I am reproducing it verbatim for the benefit of those who could not attend the function.
" Ladies and Gentlemen,
I would like to thank first of all, those of you who have come down all the way from far off places, like
Ahmedabad and Pune, specially to attend today’s function. I would specially like to introduce two of our chief guests tonight, Shri
Rajesh Singhji and Shri Bhagwan Kondalekarji, who are both active members
of a local NGO, called Samarpan Charitable Trust, Virar. The Trust is doing some exemplary
social work among adivasis in some of the villages around Virar and we would certainly appreciate if they could brief us later after my talk about the good work they are doing here in Virar.
Friends, it gives me
great pleasure to welcome you all on this great occasion. For, today is a golden letter day of great historical
importance! Because, it was on this very day eighty years back, that is, on
May 7, 1937 the coronation of King George VI took place in England, the Golden
Gate Bridge opened in San Francisco in U.S and Warner Bros. released their famous
film, “Life of Emil Zola” with lot of fanfare in New York ……. and it
was also on this very day that in a distant suburb of Mumbai, called Vile Parle, was born today’s birthday girl, Kumud to a
young and happy couple as their first and only daughter. Did you know that she
shares her birthday with such famous personalities as the nurse, Florence
Nightingale, the actors Gary Cooper and Rudolf Valentino and erstwhile President, Harry Truman of the United States of America ?
As the little girl grew up in Dadar, eventually she came to be
known as everyone’s “Babyakka” -------- not only to her own four younger brothers and cousins, but also to her
numerous friends and admirers. Later, after her marriage, when she took up a teaching job
in AFAC School, Chembur she became very popular among her students as their much loved and respected Science and Maths Teacher. Even to
this day, whenever we visit Chembur, she is often accosted by some or other handsome
young man in the late fifties who is introduced to me as one of her many bright,
old, pet student and the guy looks all too happy to meet his once favorite, science teacher. The other day, for instance, she saw one good looking, not-so-old man in the
Post Office, whom she stopped to ask him if he had studied in AFAC School, Chembur and passed his SSC in 1965. When
he replied “Yes” to both her questions, she was highly excited and exclaimed, “I knew it the moment I saw
you. You’re Rahul Chopra, aren’t you? You were in my class, Man! ” He looked in surprise at my wife and said, “ Yes, madam, I am Rahul Chopra, alright and I did study in Chembur. But, sorry, we couldn’t
possibly be in the same class. I was going to a Boys’ school and there were no
girls in my class!”
“I know, Stupid. I
was your class teacher! ” said my wife.
Ladies, they say, don’t like
their true age to be revealed; but today I have to make an exception in the
case of my wife and tell you a little secret : though she doesn’t look it, believe me, she
has really turned eighty today. She has always looked much younger than her age and in fact, it's always been a problem
for me trying to convince people that she is not my second or third wife! No, she has in no way been cheated into marrying a guy much older than herself.
If you are turning eighty today, you don’t
have to feel bad or mean about it. Turning eighty is not such a bad thing after
all. It all depends on how you look at it. If you were a dog, you’d be
considered only sixteen today! There are many benefits of being eighty, you
know, which you may not realize at first. First and foremost, you now have so
many people to love. Wherever you go, you are welcomed with awe and respect; people
won’t mind any longer if you don’t wait in the queue or jump it as you like. When
travelling in a local train, people will get up and offer you a seat while
muttering under their breath “Why can’t the old man stay at home and relax,
instead of travelling in these crowded trains during rush hours and creating unnecessary hassles for
himself and others?” They will seek your advice on all sundry and petty matters,
though they may not necessarily take it. They think, rightly or wrongly, that
years of experience have given you so much wisdom. It is true, by the time you
are eighty, you have learnt almost everything there is to know, but you only
have to remember it. The main problem, however, is that nobody really cares to ask you.
Joint
pains and memory loss are two other most common, old age problems that no eighty year old
can ever hope to escape. As the renowned
Marathi playwright, Mr P.L Deshpande once said, one should learn to look at these joint pains more positively, because they actually
help to reassure you that you’re very much alive and kicking. For the
same reason, I regularly go through every day the “Obituary” column in Times of
India. If my name isn’t there, then at least I know that I am not dead! I can then
have a good breakfast and go back to sleep.
When
you start forgetting in old age, you almost always start by forgetting others' names
first, then you forget their faces, then you forget to pull your zipper up and
finally, what is much worse, when the need is most urgent you forget to pull it down. There is a bright side to it also --- you can now safely afford to forget
your wife’s birthday as she will forgive you, hopefully, for your inadvertent
errors. But, don't forget to keep your fingers crossed. What’s more, if wife starts
nagging, you don’t have to worry any more about which deaf ear to turn, as in all likelihood you are equally hard of hearing in both your ears; moreover, you could also quietly mute your hearing aid without letting her know. My wife has a good tip for overcoming
forgetfulness. Whenever she does not want to forget something very important,
she makes it a point to tie a tiny knot in the pallu of her saree and then asks me to remember what that third knot
in the series of knots in her pallu stands for! Someone told her that in order to keep hackers away you should change the passwords for ATM bank accounts etc as often as possible; so, she keeps changing the order
of the knot sequence in her pallu! For this very reason, now a day I take strong objection to her visiting old
friends and relatives staying in distant suburbs like Dadar or Vashi, because I
shudder to think of what will happen to me if she forgets her way back home!
One last tip before I stop. Please never ever tell a youngster of your woes
about your own forgetfulness. For all you know, he may come back with some remark
like “ I know, Uncle. You have told me this at least five times since
yesterday”
So
friends, we are here to celebrate Kumud’s eighty golden years which were full of
energy, achievement, and happiness. During this period, she has also seen
sadness and had some very tough times too, but she always imparted to us some of the
great inner strength she managed to find for herself to fight and rise above
them. As her husband, I feel truly privileged to have such a wonderful wife
like her, but also my family ---- both my sons, their wives and children ----
all feel grateful to her for being a role model, such a wonderful, generous,
loving person and an inspiration to all.
As
already announced, Kumud has declined to accept any kind of birthday gifts and she has made it amply clear she is not going to make any concession to me also in this regard. So, I thought in lieu of a gift I should start a
scholarship for a poor deserving student in her name, which would be the most
appropriate gift for her considering that she is a born teacher and helping needy students is a subject very close to her heart. She has already been giving help anonymously to many a poor student by way of free text books, note books, school uniforms etc.
Kumud handing over the Cheque for Scholarship to the office bearers
of the Samarpan Charitable Trust, Virar.
|
So, in association with Samarpan Charitable Trust of
Virar I am proposing to launch in her name a monthly scholarship for very poor
students, who may or may not be rank holders but just the same have a deep desire and ambition
to complete their college education and prosper in life. There are already numerous
scholarships and prizes for bright students; it is the very poor, mediocre but
nonetheless ambitious students who are in dire need of financial help. I mean
to give a donation in the form of a corpus fund, which will be sufficient to yield, by way of interest,
about Rs. 12000/ per annum (or Rs 1000/- per month). This scholarship will be
given to one poor, deserving student each year and he will be followed by one more poor, deserving student next year and so on. Each selected student will thus receive the scholarship for a period of three years so as to help him complete his higher education in college.
On
the occasion of her eightieth birthday I wish to give my wife, Kumud a hand-made
greeting card, in which I have written some of my innermost thoughts today, in the form of a
letter addressed to her, which though personal I would like to share with you. "
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Sunday 10 July 2016
A Fatal Error
It must have been more than six
months since my last visit to the Bank. But, today was different -- I was literally
laughing all the way to the bank, the reason being that I had just realized that
we must have put aside at least three lakh and fifty thousand rupees by way of pension
saved during the last six months. So, all in all, our recent trip to U.S had
proved quite a ‘profitable’ one! As I entered the building I met Mr. Keluskar, our
new neighbor, who stopped in his tracks on seeing me and said flashing his usual,
wide, amiable grin “Ah, how very nice to see you again, Hattangadi Sahib! When
did you come back from America? Must have been quite an enjoyable trip, what
with splendid time you must have had with your children and grandchildren.
----- Oh, that reminds me. It was probably a month or so after you left when an
inspector from our Virar police station dropped in one day making discreet enquiries
about you. Nothing important, I am sure, because when I told him you were
abroad he just went back without another word.” It was probably meant to be my first
shock of the day even if a mild one, but, little did I know it then. So, I just
took it all in my stride.
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I then proceeded to the new Passbook Printing Kiosk in
our bank to get my passbook updated; however, on seeing a long queue I changed
my mind and went to the “CASH” counter instead to draw some money, which we
badly needed to meet our household expenses. On re-opening the kitchen after a
long time Kumud had prepared a big shopping list of grocery and other urgently
needed items. When I presented the cheque for encashment, however, the pretty girl
at the window asked me when I had operated my account last because it seemed to
be suspended at the moment. I informed her that, in fact, I had not operated the
account for quite some time as we had been out of the country and she gave me a
sweet smile saying, “No problem, Sir. Please see our Operations Manager on the
first floor. He will revive your account in no time.”
The Operation Manager turned out to be one Mrs. Chandra
whom I had known since our Chembur days as she was working as a clerk in the SBI
branch there. Although I couldn’t recognize her at first, she did and gave me a
broad smile of recognition. When I told her of my problem, she said there was nothing
to it and asked for my passbook. Then, she started typing out some instructions
on her keyboard, gently at first, but, it soon turned vigorous with heavy banging
on the keyboard. I could see my account was just refusing to open until finally
she said throwing up her hands, “I don’t know, Sir. Why is your account not
opening even after I’ve revived it twice? Oh, wait a minute. Did you submit
your Life Certificate in November, Sir? ”
“No, I told you I was out of the country and your branch manager had told
me that it was no longer a problem because all pension accounts are now linked
to Aadhaar” “ Still, at least once a
year, you have to authenticate your account, Sir. Please, let me have your
Aadhaar Number, Sir” she said while she produced a small rectangular widget
from her drawer, plugged it in her computer and asked me to press my right forefinger
on its glassy surface. There was a small beep from the device when she said,
“There! We’re done, Sir. I will now update your passbook and print it.”
When she handed me the passbook, I gave it one close
look when I got my second shock of the day! There was only one single entry in the
book after I had drawn my pension last May and it showed a balance of only Rs.
58,000 or so. I told Mrs. Chandra that for the past six months I had not drawn
a single penny from my account; so, I had expected to see my balance accumulate
to at least 3 to 3.5 Lakhs rupees. “So, how come my pension has not been credited
to the account for the past five months?” I asked rather peevishly. She said she
wouldn’t know because all pension accounts are now handled by their Centralized
Pension Processing Centre(CPCC) at Belapur in Navi Mumbai. She said everything regarding
pension, whether it was passing the monthly bill, crediting the pension into your
account or maintenance of records, was all done at CPCC in Belapur and the Pension
Paying Bank(PPB) in Virar acted only like a “Cashier” window, where the actual
payment was made into the pensioner’s account either in cash or by cheque.
“Actually, the CPCC people can’t take suo moto action
like this, you know.” said Mrs. Chandra “They just have no authority to revise
or withhold anyone’s pension or even change the address --- only the
sanctioning authority like your PAO or CPAO in BARC can do it. Wait a minute. I
will call them and find out what the matter is” For next ten minutes, she was pretty
busy talking on the phone to someone at CPCC. After a while, she put down the phone and said,
“Sir, he says that your pension account has been closed as of June 12th,
2015 most probably by your CPAO from BARC. But, no one can touch your pension;
so, they won’t close the account unless there’s either a specific request from the
pensioner himself or a court decree or something like that. Then also it will
be implemented only by CPPC. He said it’s all there on the next page.” She then
shifted the screen display to the next page by pressing the “Page Down” button
and indeed, there was a small cryptic message at the top left hand corner of
the screen:
“June 12, 2015 : Acct. CLOSED. Reason: Pensioner
Deceased. (vide CPAO1666.1014.4515) ”
It
was for me not merely the third shock of the day but also a veritable Bolt from
the Blue! For the first time in my life, I had that queer feeling in mind which
one gets on learning from someone else that one is in fact dead! Suddenly, I
felt totally drained out and I dropped down with a in a heap with a desperate
sigh in the nearest chair. Mrs. Chandra’s face had turned pale white with a terrible
look of fear in her eyes as though she had just seen an apparition walk into
the room!
“No,
Mrs. Chandra, it’s not true! I AM NOT DEAD!! I am still alive and kicking, see? ” I
almost screamed.
Mrs.
Chandra gulped down a glassful of water before she could barely manage to say,
“I know. I know, Sir. We’re terribly sorry, Sir. I just don’t know how this could
happen. You see, usually we at the bank are the first ones to know about the
death of an account holder. We generally learn about it from his or her next of
kin and in turn we relay the bad news to, CPCC or CPAO, who then inform PAO. It’s
he who passes the order to close the account because only he has the authority.
But, we will not do it until and unless we see an official Death Certificate first
confirming the news. So, obviously, either there’s a bug in the program or someone
has given a wrong command. But, there’s built-in safety against just such an
eventuality. I have absolutely no idea how or who could have done it. Wait a
minute. I will talk to the CPCC guys again”
“Hello, Mrs. Chandra here. Mr. Madhavan, something
terrible has happened! Mr. Hattangadi, the man who I talked about a little while
ago --- yes, that’s right, the man whose pension has been stopped --- Well, he is
very much alive. Yes, Sir, you heard it right --- he is not dead, I repeat, NOT
DEAD! Yes, he is alive and he is sitting
here right in front of me, all worked up and fuming, naturally. Yes, I know him
very well, like the back of my hand. Aarre Bhai, only this morning I helped
him upload his Digital Life Certificate. No, no. We didn’t report anything; we
don’t even know where this news originated, probably it was his office at BARC.
No, Sir, I told you we didn’t ---- just one
minute, Sir. I just saw a 12-digit number next to the last entry in his
passbook; probably it’s his file number. Can you access it, Sir and see if we
can get some more information about his reported death? ----- Oh, you can? Fine, I will wait then for
your call, Sir.”
After
some time, Mr. Madhavan of CPCC called back and told us that it was quite
evident from the file that the pensioner, Mr. Hattangadi had died about five
months back in a fatal car accident near Ambala and as proof, they had even included
in the file a Death Certificate issued by Health Department of State Government
of Haryana! He then proceeded to display the certificate on our screen for our
benefit. Almost instantly, I saw on the screen staring in my face most derisively
was a graphic of my own Death Certificate! I must be the only privileged man on
earth to have had this honor of viewing one’s own death certificate during one’s
lifetime! The certificate in question included, besides such demographic information
as full name, gender, age, address etc, also other vital information as to the nature
and cause of death, whether it was a natural one from old age, prolonged
sickness or pregnancy, or whether it was due to electrocution or some other cause
like a fatal car accident and further, in latter case, if it was caused by a sudden
mechanical failure of the car or by drunken driving etc, etc. From the
certificate, all I could gather was that I was supposedly involved in a tragic road
accident on the Grand Trunk Road in a Haryanvi village, called Goripur, near
the city of Ambala and that the driver was the sole occupant in the car and that
he had died instantly on the spot leaving behind no clue as to his identity. Probably, as it happens often in such cases,
the body was badly mutilated and disfigured beyond recognition and the police
could find no one to identify the dead body. I did not understand how, under
these circumstances, the police could so conclusively say that the body was
mine and how on earth had they managed to get even my correct name and address!
Perhaps, the dead man was a crook or an
imposter, who had assumed my identity as his alibi from some dastardly crime that
he might have committed!! I shuddered at
the mere thought of this remote but nevertheless most likely possibility.
Next day, I paid a visit to our Chief
Pay & Accounts Officer (CPAO) sitting in Anushakti Bhavan at Old Yacht
Club near Gateway of India and found that the authorities there were not even aware
of my existence as a DAE ex-employee, let alone my ‘alleged’ death in Ambala. However,
fortunately, I found in the present CPAO, one Mr. Mukul Mehta, a congenial old fellow
in late fifties, who gave me a patient hearing and then promised to do what
best he could for me. He picked up his intercom and asked his secretary to call
one Mr. Sanatani to his office. A little later, I was introduced to the man
who, it turned out, was their software expert looking after their computers. After Mr. Mehta briefed him with my tale of
woes, Mr. Sanatani promptly sat comfortably in his chair closing his eyes as if
he had gone into a deep trance and then suddenly, opening his eyes, burst out:
“But, how is that possible? We have built-in safety, proper firewalling and
anti-phishing codes in our system to protect it against any malware and spyware
attacks. So, I don’t understand how some silly Death Cert. from Haryana could make
its way into the system to block payments in your account? ” “Silly
or not, it has succeeded all the same in withholding my pension for the past
five months! ” I interrupted making a weak attempt at a polite reminder of the primary
reason for my being there. “Oh! That can be easily explained.” he said waiving
his hands, “You see, the SBI computers are probably programmed to auto-close a pension
account the moment it encounters a Death Cert. in its cache memory. It becomes the
responsibility of the bank personnel therefore to check the authenticity of the
certificate before it gets uploaded in the system. In the present case, however,
no one seems to know in the first place how or by whom the Cert. was uploaded
in the database.”
“No
matter how it got in there, we all know now that it’s a fake one. So, why can’t
we just delete it and go ahead to revive my pension account?”
“No,
Mr. Hattangadi, it’s not simple as that! We did try it this morning and found to
our dismay that no sooner we delete out the Cert. it pops back into life again in
no time! Why, I can show it to you right now.” So saying, he pulled a laptop
lying on the table, tapped on some of the colorful icons and swiftly swiped his
finger across the touch screen to scroll the display until he arrived at a file
named BARC/NPD/G/601/0047. He opened the file and pressed on the “Page Down”
button to reveal on screen a message that gave me a strange feeling of ‘dĂ©jĂ
vu’:
“12 June, 2015: Acct. Closed. Reason:
Pensioner Deceased ----”
There
was also in addition alongside a small graphic showing my alleged ‘Death
Certificate’, which too I had seen once before. When Mr. Sanatani pressed the
‘Delete’ button on the laptop, both the message and the graphic disappeared
instantly, only to make a re-appearance a moment later with only the date
changed to the current date. For reasons best known to him, Mr. Sanatani kept playing
with the keyboard to flash the blessed certificate on screen again and again. It
was most irritating and getting on my nerves. It was then that I suddenly noticed
for the first time something unusual about the certificate.
The Death Certificate from Govt. of Haryana |
“Hold it there, will you?” I almost yelled
at the perplexed officer “Tell me, like Bank account can you also link a Death
Certificate to Aadhaar card?”
“No.
--- Not at present. Well, there’s some talk going on those lines in some of the
States like Haryana and M.P, who are planning to introduce it. But, why do you
ask? ”
“I
am asking because for a fleeting moment I think I just saw my Aadhaar Number on
that Death Certificate.”
Mr. Sanatani took a second look at the screen to
verify my observation and then, like Archimedes in his bath tub, he was so excited
that he could not help, but scream, “Ah, there you are! Now, I know why your
Death Cert. refuses to go.” he said almost in one breath, “You see, as it was issued
in Haryana it’s got linked to your Aadhaar and hence, also to your pension
account in SBI. As long as there’s Aadhaar in the SBI database it also has your
Death Certificate and so SBI protocol cannot help blocking your pension”
“Is
there then no way out of this mess?”
“No,
not unless we delink Aadhaar and Death Certificate; only Haryanvi’s who did the
linking in the first place will be in a position to do that because they would
have the proper codec. Well, SBI can at the most delink your pension account
from Aadhaar, but, that will again stop pension from getting credited into
account. So, Mr. Hattangadi, I think you have no option but to go to New Delhi and
seek help from UIDAI. Maybe they can help you out.”
“UIDAI, what’s that?”
“Oh,
they’re the Aadhaar people.”
Next
morning, I was in UIDAI office in Delhi sitting in the office of Mr. V.P. Singh, the Deputy Director General of UIDAI (Unique
Identification Authority of India). He was sitting in his chair deeply
engrossed in thought, probably mulling over my narration of the story of my recent
experiences. It took him some time before he leaned back in his chair and said
pleasantly, “Oh! Congrats, Mr. Hattangadi! You have nothing to worry about!! I see your
biometrics match perfectly with what we have in our database thus authenticating
both your identity as well as existence. As I told you, our unique
identification methodology is quite reliable and safe from any un-authorized
intrusion or attempt at duplication, forgery or fraud. Once your biometrics is
entered into our database, by default it gets locked there and no one can ever change
it. Even if some unscrupulous element did try to steal your identity, he would only
succeed in getting himself caught in the act by our de-duplication process and face
subsequent legal action with severe penalties.”
“But, obviously the dead man in the Ambala car
accident had successfully assumed my identity because his Death Certificate shows
all my personal details from full name, date of birth and present address to even
my Aadhaar Number! How come? ”
“Well,
to tell you the truth I am also completely baffled. Because, we seldom reveal
or transfer to anyone your personal information held in our database, except
for the specific purpose of verifying a person’s identity by giving a simple ‘Yes/No’
response to queries made. UIDAI database has no links with any other database
or no one has access to information held therein, except for some public
service agencies approved by UIDAI, like banks etc, which can access the data
through our e-KYC service only for the specific purpose of verifying the
identity of a person before making him a payment from the Government like
pension, gas subsidy etc and all this is made possible with a
one-time-password, issued with express knowledge and permission of the Aadhaar
card holder.”
“So, also, your personal identification data
appearing in the Death Certificate becomes possible, if and only if it is
linked to your Aadhaar Number. Although we ourselves are still to introduce
Aadhaar seeding in Birth / Death Certificates, I understand some State
Governments like Haryana have already done it. This seems to be the most
plausible explanation, but technically we are not in a position to help since it
is up to the Government of Haryana now. It is their baby and the ball is in their
court. However, do not worry, Sir. Give me a week and we will do what we can to
help you out of this most vexing problem. I am sure we will find some way.”
“I have already assigned
one of our bright young officers to get to the bottom of this rather unusual
problem and he is right now in Chandigarh seeing the DIG (Police) there, who is
a good old friend of mine. He will give my man all the help needed to get the
low-down on this case.” said Mr. Singh and as if to placate me, he offered me a
cup of tea and biscuits, “But don’t worry, Sir, your pension will be revived,
eventually; only, please bear with us until then. We are extremely sorry for
all the trouble and unnecessary anxiety caused by this problem.”
Just
then, there was a light knock on the door and a smart young man walked in. Mr.
Singh nodded and showed him to a chair by my side. When the young man settled in
his chair, he said, “Oh! Mr. Chopra, I see you’re back already from Chandigarh.
Well, we were just talking about you. By the way, this is Mr. Hattangadi from
Mumbai who is having this most unusual problem with his pension. Now, could you
please brief us on what all information you could gather in Chandigarh? ”
“Well, to cut the long story short” said the
young man after a slight pause, “Sir, the mysterious man killed on the spot in
this horrible accident at Amballa was probably just driving through the city on
his way to Delhi. As he was a stranger in the city, there was no one around, who
the local police could find, to identify the body which was anyway badly
mutilated with the face disfigured beyond recognition. So, the police searched
his belongings for a possible clue and found a blood-stained Aadhaar card, with
the help of which they could identify the man as one Mr. Vasant Hattangadi from
a small town called Virar near Mumbai. Haryana Police, on their part, were
discreet enough to request their counterparts in Mumbai to pass on the sad news
to the deceased’s next of kin. They were all too stunned and taken aback,
however, when I told them that they had made an obvious mistake in identifying
the dead man as Mr. Vasant Hattangadi was alive and at the moment sitting in
our Delhi office protesting about being declared dead though alive. They immediately
rushed someone off to the police station to get the personal effects of the
dead man, which luckily they were still holding. I found the ‘offending’
Aadhaar card in the lot in a very bad shape; it was so mucky and dirty that it
was hardly legible. However, with some difficulty we could manage to read its
serial number as 1234 4683
9011 and not
1234 4638
9011, as mentioned
in the Death Certificate. Obviously, someone either at the police station or at
the hospital which issued the Certificate, had goofed-up. Now, of course, the
defective Death Certificate has been duly invalidated and cancelled, while a
new one has been issued in its place and linked to the correct Aadhaar Number. By
the way, we now know the real identity of the dead man: he was a businessman dealing
in automobiles, by name Vasan Hattikundur, hailing from Malleswaram in
Bangaluru.”
“The rest is all history. All’s well that ends
well...” said Mr. V.P. Singh chuckling triumphantly, “So, Mr. Hattangadi, now you
don’t have to worry anymore about some unknown, dead man running away with your
pension. I knew all along that our Aadhaar methodology of personal
identification is simply impeccable and there had to be a human error somewhere
in this hullabaloo! After all, as they say, to err is human and --------”
“To
forgive divine! But, this error or
blunder proved quite unfortunate for me. Well, let me take your leave, Mr.
Singh and thank you so much. Thank you very much, indeed.”
After almost a week of running around from
pillar to post, I was at last feeling relaxed and happy. When I stepped out of
the building it was nearly sunset time. As I entered a radial road in Connaught
Circus, I just turned back to have one last look at the sprawling UIDAI
building, now silhouetted in all its glory against the backdrop of a crimson evening
sky of New Delhi.
Au revoir, Aadhaar!
|
Sunday 21 February 2016
A Parting Gift for Ron
“Your flight’s at ten o’clock, right?” asked Emil as he swerved the car on to the highway and as Ron gave a slight nod, he said “Don’t worry; we will be there well in time.”
Ron Clarke, Australia’s Olympics Champion athlete was returning home after having spent an enjoyable weekend in Prague with his ‘role model’, Emil Zatopek of Czechoslovakia, the man who had earned for himself the sobriquet, ‘Czech Locomotive’ because of his unprecedented, great accomplishments in Olympic Games. In the entire history of the Games he is the only one to have made a ‘hat trick’ of sorts in distance running by securing a triple win: he had won all three gold medals for running in the 1952 Summer Olympics at Helsinki (500 meters, 10,000 meters and marathon) and to this day, the record remains unbeaten by anyone.
Ron too was a sporting legend in his own right; well before he had crossed thirty he had already proved himself by notching up seventeen world records to his credit. In the 1964 Tokyo Games, he was the sole hot favorite for the 10,000 meters event. But, though he had by then broken almost every previous record from 2 miles to 20 kilometers, the Olympic Gold medal had, however, eluded him so far and he had to be satisfied with winning only bronze or silver medals and that was precisely what had been eating him up lately. The 1968 Summer Olympics, which had just been concluded in Mexico City, had proved to be a total fiasco for Ron Clarke. Not being used to running at high altitudes, the lack of oxygen there had caused him problems and though he had somehow managed to finish in the sixth place, he had collapsed and almost died at the finishing line surviving with a somewhat weakened heart and a ruptured valve that called for surgery. But, one thing was certain: he had returned from Mexico as a completely heart-broken man!
As the car sped towards the Prague International Airport, its occupants observed an awkward silence for a while, only to be broken first by Emil who glanced sideways at his friend as he spoke: “It was just too bad, Ron ---- I mean, what happened to you in Mexico City was just too unfortunate. Well, as they say, the most important thing in Olympics is not to win but to take part in it. So also in life, the important thing is not the success you get but it’s the struggle you make to find it. The essential thing is to have fought well and not to have conquered.”
“When the chips are down, there’s nothing one can do except, perhaps, let them fall where they may. Anyway, no use brooding over it because, it’s all water under the bridge now. All you got to do is stand up again and face life with a renewed vigor. I have a gut feeling that you can do it if only you try once again, young Man. I am not saying this because I like you as a person, but, because, gold or no gold, I respect you as an able athlete! ”
“You really think I can do it?” asked Ron eagerly.
“Yep, all you got to do is to train the right way and put in some hard work.” said Emil. “Running is easily understandable: all it requires is speed and stamina. When I was young, I was too slow a runner, but, I had a passionate desire to win the race. I thought, I already knew how to run slow and all I needed to learn was how to run fast; so, for that I would have to practice running fast. So, I started running as fast as I could, first for a hundred meters stretch and then, I gradually upped the figure to 400 meters. I’d do it forty times in the morning and then once again in the afternoon, that is, I ran total 20 miles in one day! I did that for about two weeks.”
“What 20 miles a day for 2 weeks! That’s mind boggling, Man!!” Ron couldn’t help shouting.
“Well! People thought I had gone crazy. In this business, you’ve got to train like mad. There’s no other way, because, the more you tax your body, the more you’re in control. You must practice running at a steady, maximum sustainable pace at which you can easily manage a 5K or 10K meters stretch and you will have to log in at least 20 to 30 miles a day. For, if you do it once nothing happens; it’s only when you force yourself to repeat the strenuous part hundred times under most excruciating conditions that you start seeing results in more ways than one. I have trained in snow, in slush and in bad weather in army boots on rough, countryside roads and sometimes, even uphill. For my resistance training, many a time I would carry my wife, Dana on my back. Training under most unfavorable conditions not only builds up your endurance but also your will power and I tell you, it’s worth the great relief and pleasure you get when you cross the finishing line ahead of all others in the race."
“Don’t you think continuous training at moderate steady pace over long distances, while you keep increasing both gradually everyday is a better bet, any day?“, asked Ron.
“No, that’s the traditional way – this slogging day in and day out. In the long run, it doesn’t do you much good, you know. I think running at one’s personal best pace even if it be over short durations is a much better idea. Between these bursts of intense activity you try to squeeze in short periods of recovery, which you run at much lower comfortable speeds. For example, you run two minutes at a hard effort and then follow it up by two to three minutes of easy jogging, or even walking, while you catch your breath. I think this method --- I call it “Interval Training” --- wherein you alternate between bouts of fast running and slow running is more beneficial to distance runners than a traditional, more rigorous and strenuous regime. Firstly, it trains your muscles to work more efficiently at higher speeds and you learn to quickly switch over from slow to fast speeds and vice’ versa. Secondly, because you’re running at higher speeds, just above your discomfort level, at which you gasp for breath but not really so hard as to pass out, your maximum uptake of oxygen increases as in any aerobic exercise and your muscles gain in strength and train faster. It improves both your PR running speed as well as endurance in a much shorter time than the traditional tedious method that focuses more on high-volume, medium-paced workouts rather than one with a better efficiency. Running at your fastest sustainable speed – but not at an all-out, topmost racing speed – is the key to running with good form and avoiding injury. You must choose your running pace just above the level, which you perceive as the one you can easily withstand for 10 to 12 minutes, depending on your fitness. In other words, it’s a controlled, intense effort followed by a truly easy jog. The secret of success of the method lies in the so-called recovery period during which one recuperates from exhaustion of the previous half, just enough to enable you to run hard again in the next interval. Thus by end of the session, you’re a little fatigued, but, not necessarily completely fagged out.“
Ron Clerk was pondering in serene silence over what Emil had just told him. Little did he realize then that what he had just been witness to was the birth of an innovative idea for effective training that would be wildly accepted and commonly used someday in athletic training, not only in running but also in allied fields like bike-racing, sprinting, steeple chase, swimming etc. It is called, “High Intensity Interval Training” or simply HIIT.
The airport Control Tower with its rotating radar dish were just appearing on the horizon when Emil suddenly announced, “Well, there you are, Prague’s Ruzyne International Airport! ----------------- I think you got to hurry, Ron; you have just enough time to catch your flight at Terminal 2. Okay, then. Take Care of yourself and wish you All the Best. Good Bye and Bon Voyage! ---- Oh, wait a minute! I almost forgot. Here, take this --- this is for YOU, Ron. I am giving it to you not because of friendship, but, because I sincerely believe you deserve it. Please don’t open it right now, though – wait till you reach London. Bye again!” He felt his own voice slightly choked with emotion as he warmly embraced Ron. Then, he reached into his inner vest pocket and produced a small parcel, neatly packaged in pink paper, which he gently passed into Ron’s hands.
Ron was curious to know what the parcel contained. “Was he being used to smuggle something out of the country, like a precious diamond, secret weapon, contraband or something else? No, Emil won’t do such things. Or was he trying to defect to the West like some of his countrymen? ” he wondered. Whatever it was, he decided, he was not going to wait patiently all of two hours to London. So, no sooner had he boarded the aircraft and settled down in his seat than he was seen rushing towards the toilet taking the pink parcel along with him. Once inside the toilet, he hurriedly opened the package and to his utter astonishment found inside a tiny round, brightly shining, metallic piece staring him in the face. It was Emil’s 10,000 meters Olympic gold medal that he had won at Helsinki in 1952! For a minute, he was too stunned to react; it was then that Ron Clarke, the famous Australian long distance runner, known for his seventeen world records, slowly sat down on his toilet seat and wept like a small child. As long as he lived, Ron would tell everyone that the gold medal he had got from Emil that lucky day in Prague was his life’s most cherished possession.
Wednesday 19 August 2015
A Different Honeymoon
“Honey!”
she said tenderly as she entwined her slender fingers into mine. “Tell me, no,
where are we going for the honey moon?” Like many other young, dreamy-eyed
couples waiting desperately to tie the knot, we were at the sea beach locked in
each other’s arms, while eagerly counting days to the big event and the
honeymoon to follow. Naturally, we wanted
to plan it all very carefully in every detail--- especially, in view of my finances
not being exactly encouraging, I had to make all my lavish plans very cautiously. “Tell me, Dear, where would YOU like to go
for the honeymoon?” I countered benignly while keeping my fingers crossed and
heaved a big sigh of relief when she opted, thank God, for Gulmarg in Kashmir
and not some exotic place like Rome or Honolulu! However, all the same I was in
real hot soup. For, with my wallet nearly empty, I knew I’d have to either rob
the nearest bank or shock my future wife on the eve of her marriage by
revealing the truth about my current financial status.
In such difficult situations, I usually turned to my
friend, philosopher and guide, Simon D’Souza, a very resourceful soul, who
always had ready solutions for all sticky problems in life. But, when I asked him
for a small loan, the guy gave me a big sermon. “First of all” he said
“Remember all girls are little starry-eyed and have their own lofty, romantic ideas
about honeymoon and if you spoil them for her, then you had it for the rest of
your life. So, be considerate to your wife’s wishes; it’s better to have a short
and cheap honeymoon than no honeymoon at all, though a very long one runs the
risk of being too boring. Honeymoon is like the anesthesia that a surgeon uses to
protect you from pain
and fear during a basically scary and risky operation that, we know, in the
long run is for your own good. It does not have to be a grand seven day package
tour of Europe or the Orient. One can enjoy it even if it’s just a weekend in a
small, seaside cottage in Alibag! These days, you can rent a shabby, little room
or cottage at a cheap rate with bed, breakfast and a sumptuous Malwani meal with
spicy, fish curry. After all, what else does one need for a decent honeymoon but
a little privacy and solitude to get to know each other better and enjoy some much
needed togetherness? You will be surprised how much love you can pack into a
weekend, not far from your home! ”
So, finally, we decided on the two cities of
Bangalore and Mysore as our honeymoon destinations. With cash gifts we were
certain to get at the wedding, I thought, we might just as well manage to ‘break-even’
in this enterprise. Now, all that remained was to convince my much disheartened
fiancée that this was a small compromise one would have to make for the sake of
some quality time to share alone with your beloved; moreover, Kashmir was not
cancelled for good, but only postponed to brighter times in the future. Besides,
was it not true that our entire life was going to be just one, big, prolonged
honeymoon! Though reluctant at first, Kumud finally gave in to my entreaties.
The next part of the battle was to make my father-in-law agree to delete the “No-Gifts-Please”
notification from the invitation cards!! While making the hotel reservations, I was
particular to let them know that we were a newly married couple on our honeymoon,
hoping against hope that they might just as well offer some promotional concession
like “a free, extra night for the cost
of two”!
***************** x
******************
After the Wedding Reception was
over, we returned late in the night to Kumud’s parent’s place in Dadar. While
everyone was keen on unwrapping and seeing the various gifts we had received, I
for one was eagerly waiting to savor the ‘best wedding gift from God’! However,
I was given to understand that there would be no filmy style ‘Suhag Raat’ with the
bashful bride walking in with a glass of milk and the groom gently raising the
‘Ghungat’ to reveal the beautiful face that would launch a thousand ship etc. For one thing, they don’t make brides bashful
anymore and for another, my mother-in-law had already decreed that a proper ‘safe
distance’ had to be maintained at all costs between the main protagonists until
some Puja or some such thing was performed the next morning. In any case, with half
a dozen guests floating around in the house, what possibly can a newly married
couple accomplish within the confines of a 1-BHK flat in Mumbai, except stealing
some meaningful glances at each other? But, my father-in-law, Capt. Rao must
have been a real romantic in his own younger days, else he wouldn’t have gone to
such great lengths as to make arrangements for us in the neighbor’s vacant flat.
Before we had returned from the marriage hall, one enterprising brother-in-law of
mine had already got the flat done up and the bed decked up with flowers and
spray of an exotic perfume! Somewhere deep down in my mind, I felt very happy at
the prospect of what was going to be a very memorable night. As we bid
goodnight to everyone and were about to leave, Kumud asked her brother for the keys
to the flat and suddenly, he turned pale like a ghost! In his excitement, it seems,
he had pulled the doors shut behind him leaving the keys inside. The way of man
is not in his own hands. For, man proposes but, God disposes.
**********
x **********
We
were about to take off on our honeymoon completely oblivious of what was in
store for us during the next ten happiest days of our life. Ajit, the youngest of
my four brother-in-laws, who was only eleven years old then, had fetched the
taxi for us and had firmly settled himself in the back-seat waiting for his
dear ‘Babyakka’ in the happy misconception that he too was coming with us to
Bangalore. My father-in-law was already in the front-seat and as Kumud got into
the back of the car, her grandmother, entered through the other door with a
small airbag in her hand and sat smugly next to her favorite granddaughter. In
a slightly hushed tone, I asked my wife, “Don’t tell me, your grandmother is
also coming with us to Mysore!” “Don’t
be silly!” said Kumud, a little amused. “We are just dropping her home on our
way at Grant Road.”
“Oh,
I see! I thought your mother was sending her as your chaperone.”
The
taxi was full and Sardarji, the driver started the ignition. I was still
standing on the footpath with a bag in my hand and when they were about to
embark, I shouted almost in panic, “Hey! Wait a minute. How can you go on this
trip without me? It takes two to make a honeymoon, you know.”
When we landed at Victoria
Terminus, our train was about to leave. In the hurly burly of loading the
luggage, locating our seats, saying ‘good bye’ and so on, no one had noticed
that Kumud’s youngest brother, Ajit had gone missing. Lo, there was panic again
and everyone started looking around for him and found him sitting calmly next
to a smiling young man who, I thought, I had met somewhere very recently. Ajit,
however, was refusing to budge from his seat as he was firm in his resolve to
accompany us all the way to Bangaluru! But, Kumud somehow managed to convince
him and succeeded in cajoling him to go home “like a good boy” but only after he
had elicited a promise from her that we would definitely take him along the
next time. God, I thought, the lady was making promises for the next honeymoon
when even the first one was still nowhere in sight!
The young man in front of
me was still smiling sheepishly at me. “Don’t you remember me?” he said at last.
“I am Raja Ketkar, Sheelu Srinivasan’s fiancĂ©. We had met other day at your
Wedding, remember? ….. So, going for honeymoon, are you? Where’re you going by
the way, Mysore or Ooty? These days, every
Tom, Dick and Harry goes to Mysore. Can’t blame them, you know. It’s the only
place middle-class people like us can afford. I am also getting married next
month and both of you must surely come, please.” Then, after a slight pause, as
if he had remembered something important he winked at me and added, “One more
thing. Please don’t forget what you promised me the other day. We will keep in
touch, okay? ” Luckily, the train soon picked up speed and the guy started
dozing in his seat. Kumud, who was waiting impatiently for just such an
opportunity asked me what it, was that I had promised him. I told her I had no
idea, but, whatever it was it was I was not going to oblige.
************
x ***********
It was just early dawn when our train
chugged into the sleepy town of Bangalore, with birds chirping and cocks
crowing somewhere in the far distance; only a few horse-driven carts, called
Tongas and milk vendors riding on bicycles could be seen on the roads. After
coming out of the railway station, we hired a Tonga to go to Hotel Woodlands. At
the check-in counter, we had a surprise waiting for us; someone had already booked
one room for us two days earlier! Just as I was wondering who could be this
mysterious man who had done the favor, a puny little man, probably in his late
thirties, came forward with folded hands and a broad grin on his face and said,
“I’m Murlidhar Joshi working in your father’s office, National Pharmacies
Limited ----I’m working as the manager in their Mysore branch. When I got the letter
from ‘boss’ that his son is coming here with wife, I did not wait even one
minute and came down here straight to book a room in the best hotel for you. Today,
I am what I am only because of your father, Sir. Err …hope you’ll like the
room, Sir. I took great care to select the best room for you with a nice view --
you can actually see the backside of Lalit Mahal from your window.” So saying,
he picked up our suitcases himself and escorted us to our room with the ‘best
view’ which turned out to be the royal cowshed behind the palace, with its all-pervasive
aroma of animal poop filling the air! But, the room itself was neat and tidy and
esthetically done up with a classic painting of Radha-Krishna in erotic pose hanging
on the wall!!
So, some thirty six hours after the wedding,
we had found at last some free time and solitude for ourselves. I suddenly felt
a whiff of inspiration in the air and I thought it was high time we should at
least open and have a cursory look at God’s gift, but, before I could even
think of it, there was a light knock on the door and standing there in the
doorway was this smart looking bell-boy with an impish smile. “Room Service,
Sir” he said and handed us our ‘welcome drink with compliments of Woodland
Hotel, “Where would you like your breakfast served, Sir, here or downstairs in
the common Dining Hall?”
After the breakfast, Kumud wanted to take a
stroll in the beautiful garden and look at the roses whereas I was of the
opinion that we should return to our room and attend to more important things like
most honeymooners generally do. But the crux of the problem was that I didn’t
know how to broach the subject and where to begin. I took a deep breath and told
Kumud, “Let’s go back to our room. There’s something interesting I want to show
you”. When we reached the room, Kumud said, “I know what you’re going to show
me! Well, it must be God’s Gift, isn’t
it? What is it, anyway?”
“Come, sit here by my side and I will show you, Dear.” I said as I
gently pulled her by my side and she slowly sank into the cozy, velvety double-bed.
“No, not now --not in broad daylight!” said Kumud in feigned anger rising quickly
to her feet. “Well, I only wanted to read a book together with you and for
that, we will need some good light, I think.” I said coolly. “What book? You don’t
mean that ancient porn, written by Vatsyayana
or someone, do you?” she asked me quite seriously and I felt happy that, at
least, our conversation was going in the right direction. “Well, it’s a
book for newlyweds, ‘How to Be Happy Though Married”. It gives many practical
tips for leading a happy married life. Well, you know someone has said that a beautiful girl is also like a good
book – once you start reading it, you can’t put it down till you reach the end,
when though you may feel bit exhausted, you don’t want to stop because it’s such
an exhilarating experience.” Just then, there was a thud on the door and cursing
under my breath for this most untimely and not-so-welcome an interruption, I
got up and opened the door.
It was our ever-smiling friend, Mr. Murlidhar Joshi
accompanied this time by his family. “Oh! It’s our great Murli Manohar Joshi!
But, what’re you doing here, Mr. Joshi, instead of campaigning for Jan Sangh in
Rai Bareilly?” I said welcoming him inside. “No, no! Not Murli Manohar, it’s just Murlidhar Joshi. Ha,
ha! I liked your humorous nature, though. By the way, Sir, this is my wife,
Sunita and two children, Rohan and Shakuntala. But, we call her by her pet
name, Chingi. Well, we thought you might like to do some sight-seeing today. I
can take you round the city, Sir and show you some of the important places of
historic interest. My wife said she has also not seen them as yet and so, I thought
I will bring them along too. I hope you won’t mind, Sir”
We then roamed in the city seeing Vishwesharaya
Technological Museum, Cubbin Park, Lal Baug etc and returned very tired to the
hotel late in the evening. We requested Mr. Joshi and his family to join us for
dinner, which he readily agreed. After dinner, when we were just enjoying our dessert
in the lounge, a short, well-dressed man walked in and started making polite
enquiries about food, our well-being and other arrangements in the hotel etc.
From his pleasing, sophisticated manners and polite way of speaking, I could rightly
guess that he was the hotel manager, Mr. Namboodri. Just as he was leaving,
however, he suddenly stopped in his tracks, turned back and asked me what then seemed
like an innocent question: “Mr. Hattangadi, have we not met somewhere before? Yes,
I remember now. I think you were here three years back for our hotel’s Silver Jubilee.
Right? ” I looked at my wife who was smiling good-naturedly with a slightly amused
look on her face, as I coolly replied: “No, not right at all, Mr. Namboodri. I
think you’re making a mistake. It must be someone else. This is my first visit
to Bangalore, you know.” “No, Mr. Hattanagdi.
I’m sure you were the one. If I am not mistaken, I think, only the madam
who was then with you was probably a different person! Because, I think, she
was slightly taller and fairer in complexion.” said the manager. A warning
bell rang deafeningly in my ears and I realized that I just couldn’t afford to allow
this nonsense to continue any longer. I sprang to my feet shouting, “Just, what
the hell, are you talking about, Mister? We’re a three-day-old, married couple
and we are here in this hotel for our honeymoon and you have the temerity to
suggest I was here before with another woman.” “Yes, Sir. I am quite certain about it. Yes, I
remember now. You had with you even your three year old son and one more was expected!”
Kumud, who was a mute witness to all these goings-on,
suddenly got up fuming with rage and walked out in a huff without even a single
word. Oh, there goes my Honeymoon, I thought, even before it had started thanks
to Mr. Namboodri! “See what you’ve done, Mister? --- Oh, No! Kumud, please wait
for me. Please don’t go away leaving me like this.” In a desperate attempt to save
my marriage, I ran after her pleading my innocence. I told her that I was
shocked myself at the sudden turn of events. “Don’t believe a word of what he’s
saying, dear. This guy is either drunk or has gone nuts! I swear I have never seen
this man before, nor I have ever been married to any other woman. I have never
come to Bangalore before, let alone stay in this hotel. Look, why are you
packing your suitcases? Look, Kumud -----”
“Stop there, you cheat and double-cross! Don’t
you dare even touch me.” shouted Kumud now almost in tears. “I never imagined
you being a married man and also a father of two kids! Tomorrow, take me back
to Mumbai. I will tell Papa everything. He will teach you a good lesson. He
will take you to court for cheating and bigamy and see that you’re punished,
neat and proper.” “Please Honey! Why don’t you understand? Obviously, this man,
Namboodri is mistaking me for somebody else who, believe me, was not me. Toh
mee navhech! ”
Naturally, I had to spend the
whole night shivering on a sofa out there in the lounge. I had no other
alternative, until and unless I could furnish some tangible proof about my innocence
and bona fides! But, for that, I would have to wait until the next day
to meet the root cause of this problem, Mr. Namboodri and sort out the mess
with him, once and for all. However, when I met him early next morning, at
first he stuck to his story and kept insisting that he had met me in the very
same hotel in 1957 and then, as if he had suddenly remembered something, he rushed
into his office and returned immediately with a thick album of photographs,
taken during the ‘Silver Jubilee’ celebrations. He said he was certain to find
at least one photo in there that would prove his stand and indeed after some
searching he did produce a photograph, with a victorious smirk on his face. I
almost snatched the photograph from his hand, saw it and then ran upstairs straight
to show it to my doubting wife. “Just as I told you, Kumud! See, I have been cleared
of all the charges. I was telling you it was not me but some other bloke. It
was my elder brother, Dada who had stayed here in Woodlands for four days in
1957, along with Vahini and their son, Arun. You see, they had come here to
attend our cousin, Medha’s marriage and afterwards, before returning to Mumbai,
they had taken a four day break! ”
Having placated my wife and all her
doubts about my fidelity allayed, I could breathe a sigh of relief. I even thought
the way was now clear for the long pending, Opening of God’s Gift. But, you must
have it in your destiny first, else it’s either a flop or postponed again. Presently,
someone started banging on the door repeatedly as if the building was on fire!
Making a mental note not to forget asking the Manager to provide us with a
“Please Do Not Disturb” sign to be hung on the door, I went and opened it. It
was Mr. Murlidhar Joshi again who had come with his wife and three year old
daughter, Chingi who was crying inconsolably. It seems, she had been throwing
tantrums all evening as she wanted to sleep with her favorite Kumudaunty in
spite of her parent’s entreaties and all out efforts to the contrary. When she
saw Kumud, she calmed down a little and leaped into her open arms. She clung to
Kumud like a child clings to her mother and refused to go back with her own
parents. We told Joshi’s that it was perfectly alright with us if they let the
child sleep with us for the night and soon, Chingi was dancing with joy all
over our bed. We had no other go but to give in to the child’s wishes and let
her sleep in our bed, comfortably ensconced between the two of us.
On the eve of our departure from
Mysore, I was just sitting in the balcony turning over in my mind events of the
last few days. Right since our wedding, I found that some or other stumbling
block kept us away from the unveiling of ‘God’s Wedding Gift’ but, we had not
even succeeded in as much as untying the ribbons. The very first night had turned
out to be a damp squib because it was ‘No-Go’ till we had official clearance
from Lord Satya Narayana (read ‘mother-in-law’). Next night was a fiasco for want of a latchkey!
The third evening, we were travelling in the train to Bangalore in a Three Tier
Sleeper coach, comforting myself that, not to worry, we would make up for the
lost time during the honeymoon in Bangalore. But, thanks to Mr. Namboodri, on the
very first day I got busy extricating myself from an embarrassing situation
that resulted in ‘walk-out’ by Kumud and consequent ‘adjournment motion’. I had
to spend the night out crouching on a sofa while my better-half slept peacefully
inside in a soft, cozy bed! To add injury to the insult, that spoilt little
brat, Miss Chingi landed herself next night in our bed literally kicking me out
of my rightful place in the process! Next, we were travelling again in a so-called
Luxury Bus to our next destination in Mysore. What possibly can one do in the most
uncomfortable, reclining seats of an ancient luxury bus except hold hands? Especially,
when snoring right behind you there is none other than our ever helping, worthy
friend, Mr. Murlidhar Joshi, along with his family! It seems, though posted in
Mysore, the poor fellow had come all the way to Bangalore only to ensure personally
that we had the most comfortable and enjoyable a stay in Hotel Woodlands.
Needless to add, contrary to our great expectations and hopes that we might
just yet be left alone to fend for ourselves, Messers Joshi graciously kept us
company all through our three day stay in Mysore. They were there with us when
we went to see the Mysore Palace and Mysore zoo and when we visited Chamundi Hills,
Jaganmohan Palace, Krishnarajsagar Dam and Brindavan Gardens and besides, in
the evenings, our little friend, Chingi was there to keep us company, the whole
night, in our bed. Then, to add to my
misery, during the last two days Kumud had suddenly gone silent and sullen
leaving me wondering if it was due to something I had unintentionally said or
done that had caused it or if she was feeling really unwell. After much coaxing
and persuasion, she finally came out with the truth; she was feeling terribly
homesick and missing her siblings and mother. Naturally, I had to drop all my
plans to take a break on our way back home, for two days at Lonavala or
Matheran, where we could have one last ‘go’ with God’s Gift. For some, the
honeymoon phase ends with that first trip, for some others it lasts for a couple
of years and for people like us, it is still on after so many years ---- still
sweet like honey though waxes and wanes like moon, sometimes.
************ x ************
“Hello,
this is Raja Ketkar. So, how did it go,
Vasant? I mean your honeymoon.”
“Well,
it was fine while it lasted. When is yours, by the way? ”
“Very
soon, I think. We're getting married next week. Both of you
must come, okay? Now, it’s time for you to keep your promise.”
“What
promise did I make? I don’t remember”
“Well,
you had told me you will give me some practical tips and notes after returning from your honeymoon.”
“Oh,
did I promise that? But, I don’t know, if my notes will be of any help.”
“Why?
“
“ Our honeymoon was different! ”
-------- ooooooo --------
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